


The Heart of Praxus

by TurboFerret



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Ancient History, Archaeology, Desert, Functionist Universe (Transformers), M/M, Maraduing, Naga, Shag an Archaeologist Day, Worldbuilding, raiding tombs, snake people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-08-22 09:05:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16594964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurboFerret/pseuds/TurboFerret
Summary: Jazz is an archaeologist involved in illicit antiquity trade. His latest  sponsor has given him a task of examining a Praxian ruin site in search of a rumored artefact. Jazz has his doubts about the success of this assignment but the offer paid too well for him to turn it away.





	1. The whisper of sands

**Author's Note:**

> This fick will contain smut but I will indicate the chapters to which this applies. For now please enjoy some safe worldbuilding.

  


-”We are entering the territory of former Praxian citystate. As you can see not much remains of this remarkable culture but on the left you can see what is considered to be one of the largest standing  monuments of Praxian architecture - the Ziccurat of the emperor.”

 

Jazz listened sleepily to the audio guide as his transport shuttle glided over the ruins of what once had been a majestic structure. The scenery outside consisting mostly of chunks of pillars strewn around the dunes, the internal parts of structures blown open and stripped bare by decay and marauders and now filled with sand. Praxus had once thrived - now it was a desert.

 

-”Sadly none of the bearers of the culture survived the functionalist intervention.”

 

The audio guide continued and Jazz snorted at that statement. Calling it intervention was putting it mildly. Their semi-organic appearance and a penchant to worship snake-gods from space had made Praxians a sore spot in the functionalist theory. The purpose of form was somewhat lost when a form served no obvious function. The obedience was lost once one worshipped something else than the standing power.

 

So Praxus had to be outlawed and destroyed and the Praxians, nobody actually knew what had befallen them but one thing was for sure - nobody had spotted anything even relatively praxian ever since.

 

-”Great attention was paid to private spaces that were used for intimate life. Lavish berthrooms have been unearthed from rubble, implicating polyamory was accepted and practiced.” Jazz vented - some historians hypothesized that ancient Praxians had elaborate interface rituals. Considering their frametype it had to be pretty different from the typical stuff mecha got up to in Iacon, then again Jazz’d heard this said about virtually Every extinct culture at one time or another so that did not sum up to much.

 

There was still time before the arrival to his destination. Jazz harrumphed and rummaged through his subspace for a couple of choice texts to read before he went mad with the Praxian trivia now broadcast on the transport speakers.

 

His small travel collection consisted of a shoddy map the mech ho had hired him had provided him with, Jazz’s private research he’d spent the last solar cycle preparing and travel guide that suited the destination of this expedition. Getting maps and intel from his own channels was the core of Jazz’s success so far. The single thing different about this request had been the demands of his client that Jazz underwent several rather deep system checks. Checks that Jazz only barely passed.

 

It had been hypothesised that a lot of Praxian relics still survived under the dunes. Jazz’s assignment was to investigate the hypothetical ruin site and, if successful - to retrieve an artefact, and - most importantly - to not get caught. ‘The Heart of Praxus’ supposedly was round and glossy gem sort of thing … and that was about all the information Jazz had managed scraping together about it. The mentions were so scarce and unreliable Jazz doubted that it existed at all. No precise descriptions of the site where it had originally resided or who it had belonged to had survived either so he’d had to compile the information from secondary sources. It had yielded some results but nothing more specific than a range of coordinates to scout.

 

But, his customer had offered a handsome sum even for just exploring the site so Jazz had taken the job.

 

The bump and a subsequent sinking feeling indicated that the transport had touched down. Jazz got off at a dusty service stop before the vehicle continued on its route to the nearby citystate - the New Praxus. The crystal structure shimmered on the horizon, it’s skyline distorted by the heated air. The New Praxus tried imitating the architecture of the ancient world and the general vibe that was associated with Praxians but that was where the similarities ended. Too little evidence was left, or rather - too much information about the ancient Praxians was watered down by censorship, it did not peaque Jazz’s interest.

 

With a whirlwind of scratchy sand particles the transport fired it’s turbines and lifted off to continue on its route; Jazz covered his visor and backed off into the shelter.

 

What was no more than a dusty hill in the dunes happened to be a rather robust trading spot geared to cater to some of the more immediate needs of the travelers - be it locals or the tourist kind. With mild interest Jazz examined the offer of local commodities - self-service washing stations, anti-scratch meshes, local energon goodies and additives.

 

Jazz purchased a small box of jelled energon bits coated in cadmium and continued his exploration.

 

Without a fail he spotted a stall with all sorts of merchandise picturing the ancient Praxians. Jazz browsed the eclectic collection of trinkets with mild interest until he spotted one of the better- crafted items - a figurine of a Praxian Deity carved from crystal.

 

He paused and examined the item a bit better - it almost looked like something one might have found in the dunes. The ‘classical’ Praxian archetype had a top part of a mech - sometimes with doorwing-like kibble - and at the point where mecha in Iacon and Polyhex had their legs Praxians had a multi-jointed single limb that served as their means of propulsion. Jazz tilted his helm this way and that, wondering how Praxians managed getting around while remaining vertical like the figurine depicted or if it was an artist’s rendering and actually they slithered on the ground.

 

Popping another piece of treat into his mouth, Jazz turned to business. He needed a means of transportation, he was not getting anywhere in dunes in his vehicle mode. A bright banner of single-passenger dune glider rental quickly took his attention and he ventured to examine the offers.

 

Nothing fancy - that would draw unwanted attention, nothing too cheap either, he still wanted to get back in one piece. A simple model with climate control really tugged on his spark with a promise of comfort but he discarded that option as soon as he found out just how much fuel that thing consumed.

 

It was not like desert was littered with fueling stations either and he had a budget to stick to, so it was with a bit of regret that he settled for a dusty-grey “Hovetron Z8”.

 

Once the rental agreement had been drawn and credits exchanged, Jazz ventured back to the trinket booth, this time looking for trekking maps and other local information.

 

A chat over a few crystals and a replica of a ceremonial dagger got him intel on some ruins in the general direction of where he was about to look anyway. Apparently the locals had been using that site as a source of hard building material for their own dwellings. Even the building they were in right now had some fragments of recognizable Old Praxian masonry lodged in its walls. The tradesmech helpfully indicated towards these subtle elements once he noticed Jazz had a more genuine interest in the matter. It went without saying that the crystals were added to his list of purchases, the shopkeeper had been kind enough to point out that he would also need a tinted film to put on his visor - a protection from both sun and scratches.

 

By the time Jazz was done he no longer needed sun protection, a purple-red dusk wafted welcome coolness his way as he ventured outside the station in search of his room. Lodged into the side of the arrivals terminal was a cave-like structure that Jazz would have overlooked under normal conditions if not for the floodlights of the passing cargo craft that illuminated the relief of numerous hexagonal compartments lining it.

 

If it was anything like Polyhex each compartment was a horizontal cell with a pull-out cot-shelf that was only big enough for one mech to lay still. Unless you were a minibot, or a very large bot, in which case you would choose a different kind of dwelling.

 

Apprehensively, Jazz approached the structure and barked a laugh when he saw the name.

 

_Welcome to the Little Polyhex._

 

Of-Fraggin-course if was called Little Polyhex. Jazz pinged his room number and sure enough a hexagonal panel in the wall above him lit up in response. This was the last time he let an agency book a place for him.

 

Jazz groaned, crawling into his recharge cabinet. Well, at least it was private, if one disregarded the fact that there were dozens of mecha resting all around him. Carefully he lay prone making sure all his limbs were inside and let the drawer pull him in automatically.

 

\- ‘Cozy’.

 

This almost felt like home - Polyhex had a known issue with overpopulation. Being wedged between hard substrate cliffs the citystate did not have much space to expand without sacrificing the safety of being difficult to access or invade. So Polyhexians opted for unorthodox solutions such as reducing their adult frame sizes. Also, most communal spaces were shared and for recharge - the compartmentalization system worked exactly the same way as in this hotel - permitting more recharge space.

 

Jazz puffed a vent and looked at the white paneling above him - ok this odd familiarity was throwing off his recharge subroutines. Driven more by boredom than curiosity he examined his little tomb-like space. Some of the fancier cells had a vid screen incorporated in the ceiling paneling. Now with more purpose Jazz looked for something that passed for control buttons and with a triumphant exclamation pressed something that had a little ray-like icon on it.

 

For a moment the cell was quiet, then suddenly he heard the door to his compartment vaccum-seal itself in. Not alarming at all, Jazz thought ruefully. Now that he thought of it, Some cells had built-in washing stations and that icon looked suspiciously like a….

 

-”Primus-fraggn’ damnit!”

 

Steam and sprinklers spat in Jazz’s face and he jerked back from the surprize of it. The compartment was so tiny that when he tried covering from the onslaught of solvent, he hit his elbow against the cell wall, all the time continuing his litany of curses.

 

Soon his triade was accompanied by knocks and calls from his nearby neighbors who’d been woken up by his impromptu showering activities. Jazz groaned, banging his helm against his cot one last time - he’d have to lay still and endure this until the showering program ran its course.

 

When the water was blessedly drained so were any remnants of sleepiness Jazz had. Well the full-body blow-dryer was nice and he actually felt better after the cleaning. Welp, there was no point of experimenting more. He quietly left his cell and ventured down to the station to see if there was any other entertainment in the area.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Going Local

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hooboy - this took forever to make and polish  
> Jazz meets the locals and regrets Everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Shoutout to the lovely FleetingFan for betaing this piece of work and being super fast about it too.

The desert was freezing at night, Jazz concluded with a rattle of his plating. The cool nights of Iacon he could handle but this bitter chill wormed itself under his plating and seemed to be trying to freeze to the spark. 

 

Not willing to return to his closet-like hotel he clamped down his plating and wandered to the station he’d arrived in, looking for some public shared space to warm up in. He was surprised to find the entire area closed off...along with every other business in the area. The inside of the structure was now eerily empty and dark as if someone had flipped the switch on all the liveliness of the day. 

 

When would it open again? Jazz could not find any indication of opening hours but the timetable indicated that there would be no new arrivals in the station until the next morning, so likely the service stop opened on demand for those few hours. 

 

But where did all the mecha go in the meantime? Did they abandon this place in afterhours and all go to the New Praxus? Well, no matter. It didn’t change the fact that Jazz was now forced to choose between being cramped with a bunch of strangers...or left completely by himself in the open. Jazz almost wanted to chuckle to himself of how much of a “would you rather” question the situation seemed to be.

 

Irritated at everything now, Jazz fluffed his plating. Why was he stationed in such a hole of a place, and even the least welcoming stops he’d been in so far had Something open at this hour.

 

Service stop area looked like a lost cause so he turned in the direction of the sands, perhaps a drive could clear his processor and wear him out for recharge? 

 

That is, if only there Was a road he could use, chances of which were wearing thinner and thinner as he looked for tarmac and found only sand. No way was he risking his wheels and driving in treacherous and uncharted areas. He HAD hired a dune glider but had not yet picked it up from the rental shop.  


 

There was a whisper of wind shifting sands over the dunes, and the light from the half-full moons made the shimmery sand particles appear almost liquid.

 

He cast another disappointed glance over the abandoned service stop and then something caught his optic that hadn’t been there a moment ago. He would have dismissed it as residual static in his optical feed caused by low-light conditions but he passed his sights over that particular spot again and there definitely was something there. The small light on the far side of the station was no a figment of his imagination or random reflection. It was too large to be someone’s e-cigar and too dim to be a streetlight.

 

Briefly Jazz’s processor queued up information about the wildlife inhabiting the dunes and legends about Praxian ghosts but he quickly shook off those thoughts for the baseless anxiety they were and instead observed. The light did not appear to be moving since it had been lit but it had become brighter. Likely it was actually an incandescent wire, which became more visible as it heated up and now glowed a cheery red to broadcast ‘Open’ to everyone able to see it. 

 

Finally something.

 

Jazz approached the sign to investigate. Whatever was open under that sign was covered by a sheet of metal that could be loosely called a door. If not for the sign the nook in the wall of the service stop and passage excavated between two piles of sand would have appeared inconspicuous.

 

A familiar twitch around his spark casing made Jazz hurry. He could definitely benefit from a sheltered space to administer his medicine. Didn’t want any sand actually getting into him after all. But the sheet of metal had no other indications of it’s openness and there were no footsteps leading to it. So Jazz was pleasantly surprised when it wooshed open on his approach like any door with proximity sensors would.

 

He chanced a step inside and

 

-“Ooof!” His pedetip hooked into grating that constituted the floor of the entryway and he stumbled forwards, losing his balance. Awkwardly, he flailed grabbing for anything that would prevent his fall and found purchase on the doorjamb that creaked under the stress of his weight. Pit he almost broke someone’s the entryway. 

 

Faceplant successfully prevented, he took the chance to look around. The interior was a mishmash of gliders in different states of disassembly - was he trespassing in a warehouse? But then if he was not supposed to enter why did the door so readily admit him inside? Maybe it was a repair shop?

 

It took another look to see that the space had a dual purpose. Yes, it was a glider repair shop with glider parts and tools laying in co-ordinated piles but more to the left side the glider parts looked like they were appropriated to serve as typical roadside oil house furniture. And, as if added by coincidence, there were a couple of items of actual oil house furniture peppered into the mix. 

 

There was a narrow bar and a shelf behind it. Alarmingly, a canister of actual glider-oil had somehow worked its way into the scant selection of consumption-grade oils and Hi-grade on that shelf. Jazz had to wonder if that was on purpose or by mistake.

 

The place appeared empty but there was a bell with a note left on the bar to “Ring for Anything”.

 

Jazz took a second look at the selection of consumables and his sights wandered up towards a high-power rifle that took up the space on the oil house mantlepiece.

 

Was it operational or was it on display only for the looks? Either way it looked that it had been well-used at some point in time if the soot-blackened tip of the muffler was anything to go by.

 

Another twinge in the spark casing stopped Jazz from investigating further. He quickly made himself comfortable in one of the chairs and rummaged through his subspace for an injector.

 

With practiced ease he uncapped the tip of the needle and extended his arm joint to expose the energon lines. He even managed locating a fairly well-healed tube. A compact frame that permitted him to live in Polyhex came at a cost.

 

A soft cleaning of intake and the quiet hum of a charged rifle stopped him mid-injection. Well, he had to give it to the locals - they were sneakily quiet. 

 

-“Those better not be circuit boosters.”

 

Jazz froze and looked towards the speaker, wincing with another pang of pain.

 

-“It’s my medicine and I need it Now.”

 

The grey and red mech did not look convinced but he did lower the rifle.

 

-“Ok, fine, do it but I warn you…”

 

Jazz did not have the luxury to listen for the rest, in response to another, more persistent twinge he plunged the needle into his line and pressed the applicator. A moment later the soothing effect kicked in and the tightness in his chest dissipated; Jazz  rested the back of his helm against the wall behind him vented with relief.

 

-“Are you ok?”

 

Jazz gave himself a moment to luxuriate in the relief before gracing the mech with an answer.

 

-“Yea.”

 

-”What was that?”

 

For a moment Jazz contemplated dismissing the question but then again being polite usually paid dividends, so

 

-”My spark is too large for my frame.” Jazz explained waving the arm with injector in it nonchalantly. -“If I do not dampen the charge in the casing it can fracture the casing and gutter out. Worse case; it explodes.”

 

The other mech made a horrified face and pulled back.

 

-“I didn’t know that sort of thing could even happen.”

 

-“You see it in Polyhexian builds with all the frame size reduction thing happening.” Jazz shrugged, feeling more at ease now, capping and subspacing the injector. -“Guess you don’t see many around here.” Open spaces was another thing some Polyhexians did not tolerate as well as other frame types but at least that Jazz was spared from.

 

-“I think you are the first one, Actually. How are you feeling now?” Thankfully the mech put the rifle back on the mantelpiece and gently rested his elbows on the bar.

 

-“Better, thank you.” 

 

-“Sorry for the cold welcome but circuit boosters are administered in a similar way and they are illegal outside New Praxus. And if enforcers found them used on our premises...”

 

The barkeep, Jazz assumed the mech was a barkeep, did not want to get into trouble and Jazz could respect that.

 

-“Nah, sorry for intruding, just needed a clean place to administer it. I’ll be on my way.”

 

-“W-wait! Don’t go, could I treat you to something as - as an apology?” The way the mech flustered looked oddly familiar. -”Do you have any, um, restrictions due to your condition?”

 

-“It’s all right, really.” Jazz gently waved the mech off, standing up to leave.

 

-“Nononono I insist, please, it is not like we get foreigners here often, least of all from Polyhex, could you tell more?” There was something uncanny about how this mech moved. His upper body was leaning towards Jazz indicating that he wanted to approach but he had not yet moved, as if he was stuck. -”It gets quite lonely in the workshop with only Bar around to keep company. How come you landed and stayed here and not New Praxus? I don’t mean to pry but it is quite unusual for mecha to linger in our stop. Oh and I’m Blue by the way.”

 

Jazz had to replay the recording of what the mech had just said on slow setting to himself to catch everything.

 

-“Ah, um. Nice to meet you Blue.” He should really leave, who knows when this ‘Bar’ would appear and Jazz had a strict one possible shooting per day limit he was unwilling to break. Though the more he observed this “Blue” the more he noticed how he avoided walking in any given direction. 

 

Was he handicapped? It would be highly unusual to see a malfunctioning frame still online but it would explain a lot... If true it was no wonder the mech was so curious about everything, he probably spent most of his existence in the relative seclusion of this out of the way bar. Perhaps Jazz could humor the mech a little before leaving? -”Oh, right, sorry for not introducing myself. I’m Jazz. About the New Praxus - I have no interest in it. Now what do you want to know about Polyhex?”

 

The mech’s jaw dropped as if Jazz had said something sacrilegious. 

 

-“But all that’s out here is sand.” The mech made a opening hand gesture as if displaying the oil house/glider shop floor, which also had a fine sheet of sand covering it. -”This is not exactly the most glamorous spot in the world either, considering that New Praxus is so close.”

 

Jazz couldn’t disagree on that point but he felt there was no need to rub that in. There was even less of a need to tell his real reasons for his being there. Especially since one could even call his mission a breach of a code of conduct. Now was as good a time as ever to divert conversation. Primus knew with what he had observed of the mech so far, whatever he said here would be known to every single other customer of the shop/bar by the morning.

 

-”Did I not buy some energon confections from you today?” Jazz chanced.

 

-”Heh, yeah, you did, I did not expect you to remember me. There are not many of us who stay here permanently so we take odd jobs when there is no coverage. Also for that job I do not have to, you know…” He awkwardly gestured to the area below his mid-section. -”move much.” 

 

Jazz nodded, his suspicions confirmed. -”Your sweets are really good though, I have never tasted something like this before.”

 

The mech lit up -” It is an old recipe but I am really flattered, thank you.”

 

Perhaps Jazz could get more information on how to get around easier from this mech?

 

-”I saw some pieces of old praxian masonry lodged into the station walls. Would you happen to know where they came from?”

 

Blue was a little hesitant, mulling over his words at first, then he finally talked about how  he did not much like mecha stripping the monuments of an older culture of what remained from it for building material. 

 

Sensing that he’d committed a conversational faux pas, Jazz once more tried guiding their chat into a different route.

 

He asked how the oil house came to be and found out that it had somehow evolved from a service garage for the dune gliders that was run by another local.

 

There was a noise outside and both Jazz and Blue turned to look in the direction it came from. The door wooshed open, admitting another late-night visitor. For a moment Jazz thought the motion sensors had admitted a pile of sand until he heard a grunt.  The sand pile then seemed as though it crumpled in on itself, unveiling a tarp and then - a mech. 

 

-”Pit damn.” The newcomer turned to the side to spit what Jazz could only assume was a mouthful of sand. 

 

-”No spitting in the bar!” Blue chided in a tired tone that implied he had to remind of this often.

 

The new mech coughed something that vaguely sounded like a “Sorry” and stepped out once more. He returned shortly, this time folding up the protective tarp he’d worn when first entering. Fine streams of sand still spilling down from the gaps in his plating on the floor and  through the grating on which Jazz had tripped onto before. 

 

-“Got caught in storm.” The mech rasped, while placing the tarp next to some others on the rack at the entrance before stepping further into the establishment. Jazz took the time that the mech was using to dump a bunch of sand for an appreciative look at the mech. He looked every bit like a local. Built like an all-terrain vehicle, wide-set tires behind his shoulder struts, particle filters on par with industrial bots, and a visor, retractable one - for protecting red optics, Jazz soon realized.

 

-”Storms hit early huh? I’ll get the desander warmed up.” Blue now bent slightly behind the bar, tapping something on the console, doorwings raised slightly. They had been hidden by the bot and the counter before so Jazz had not noticed Blue had them till now. -“You didn’t get hurt too much did you?”

 

-“Nothing I can’t handle. Oh.” The mech paused, giving Jazz a quick once-over as he passed by him. -”A visitor?”

 

-”He’s a ‘Hexie!” Blue called excitedly after the mech, bracing himself on the bar table, as the other rounded a corner to enter the de-sanding station. 

 

-”Right.” Blue sighed contentedly, now visibly more at peace. -”Oh wait.” His optics lit up as they landed on Jazz. -”I did offer you something.” He disappeared below the bar once more. Jazz leant over, now curious to see what Blue would come up with.

 

-”Stay on your side of the bar please! Customer courtesy!” Blue called in a sing-song voice as he fossicked in the shelves below, then pulled a large bottle of black oil from under the counter with quite some effort, holding it in his hands unsteadily. -”Bet you have never tried this before!” 

 

Jazz was not sure if he wanted to change that fact. -”You really don’t have to...” Since when did he go from a suspect junkie to an estranged family member? Was this how relations in the dunes worked?

 

-”I have been making this for a while now.” Blue stated with a hint of pride in his voice. He struggled holding the heavy container, swaying dangerously off-balance as he hoisted it.

 

-”Wait, let me help you.” Jazz reached out steadying the mech. Together they set the heavy bottle on the bar with a decisive thunk and then something interesting happened. The substance separated into clear liquid on top while the dark part coagulated into small, equal-sized spheres on the bottom of the bottle. Jazz stared at it in wonder.

 

-”Niice.” 

 

The sudden drawl made Jazz jump in a way that did not make his spark happy.

 

-”Primus!” Were all locals so pit-damn quiet.

 

-”Pit, where?!” The other replied jokingly with a twinkle in is red optics.

 

-”Riight.” Blue drawled with a flick of his doorwings, making the other mech snort. -” Jazz, this is Bar - the mech who runs the glider repair shop. Bar - this is Jazz, he, uh, is not interested in New Praxus?”

 

-”And a Hexie.” Bar concluded, taking a look at the bottle of Blue’s concoction. -”Looks really good, think it’s brewed enough?”

 

-”Globulation is usually the surest sign.” 

 

-”Only one way to find out though.” Bar looked at the brew keenly.

 

-”You glutton, I wanted to offer it to Jazz.” 

 

-”Not stopping you.” Bar leant back, raising hands palm-up in a placating gesture and made himself comfortable in one of the glider-turned-furniture pieces. 

 

-”What is it?” Jazz asked, now getting anxious about the entire offering thing. How did these people cope with food refusal? Was it acceptable or would it upset them? What if he did not like it? Would it be OK  to tell or should he suffer through with it?

 

-”It’s Bubble brew.” Bar replied easily.

 

-”The official name is “Spherical Sizzler”.” Blue corrected his companion. -”But Bar insists that it does not roll off your glossa the same way.”

 

-”It’s fizzy?” Jazz asked with a hopeful tone of excitement that seemed to catch Blue’s attention as he nodded back enthusiastically and poured a small cube of the concoxion.

 

-”When done properly, the spheres bounce off the bubbles of carbonation in the drink when you pour it. It makes for a pretty moving effect. Go ahead, try it, the spheres should be chewy.”

 

Jazz sniffed it first and then tried a small amount carefully and his optics lit up in surprize. It was fizzy, yes, the spheres were chewy as well but... 

 

-”Whoa, this thing has a kick.”

 

-”Like a bull Rhynodon.” Bar now sported a toothy grin, amused by Jazz’s surely scrunched-up face while Blue looked mortified.

 

-”Ah, sorry, too strong?”

 

-”Just was not expecting that, don’t worry Blue.” Jazz wiped the coolant from the corners of his optics, his intake still burnt .

 

-”Actually I was wondering…” Bar started in a matter of fact way, tracing designs over the armrest with a tip of his claw. -”You are not going for New Praxus, are you that keen on the dunes or are you taking another transit route?”

 

-”Why the interest, If I may ask?” Something about this Bar made Jazz wary.

 

-”Dune tours do not operate around this time because desert is transitioning into another season. Since dune watching is about the only legal thing mecha come here to do that makes me wonder what brings you here now.”

 

-”Em.” This was news to Jazz. -”To be honest I did not know such a thing as seasons existed here and I am in fact very much interested in exploring dunes.”

 

Bar snorted and shook his helm -”Tourists.”

 

Jazz started feeling uneasy. -”So, how Do you distinguish between sand seasons?” This could potentially scrap his initial plan.

 

Blue interfered here, trying to dissipate the uncomfortable moment. -”It’s mostly the winds during the night, the they move the dunes. The most dangerous bit is the Sand storms. This early in season it is unusual to get many or ones that last long but it is not unheard of.”

 

Well that wasn’t good.

 

-”How bad exactly can sand storms get?”

 

Bar gave him a  _ Look _ . -”Really bad. ”

 

-”Bar works as part of local Search and Rescue team.” Blue explained.

 

-”It is more of a search as there usually is not much left to rescue. So a shifting sand season is not a good season to be out unless you are planning to off anyone.” Bar cast a non-judgemental look in Jazz’s direction.

 

-”Huh? Why would I?” This was quickly spiralling into a conversation that was downright scary.

 

-”Or be offed, though that is not what one usually plans for.” Bar shrugged and helped himself to some hi-grade. Blue swatted him away but elaborated for Jazz’s sake.

 

-”Shifting dunes bury evidence and uncover remains of mecha thought long lost. Whenever mecha go missing in New Praxus, it is likely their chassis have been dumped somewhere in the dunes.”

 

Jazz felt suddenly very uncomfortable about the entire premise of his assignment. 

 

-”I - I think I will be going for tonight. Thank you for…. The bubble drink. I, how much I owe?”

 

Blue smiled at him - “Oh, it’s on the house and don’t let the stories scare you, just stay clear of the dunes tonight!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays - keep it together for 2019, we have a bumpy ride ahead!

**Author's Note:**

> Jazz essentially sleeps in a washing machine.


End file.
